INTRODUCTION.
Frozen as I am by my inability to create the great opening line, I must start simple. I shall simply weave a flawless tapestry of the truth. As I remember it. Just the way it might have actually happened. Sanity means having a grip on your own reality. I am Barker Ajax and I am a thorn in the side of women everywhere.
Not as easy to be me as I make it look.
Let’s start with a meditation on Female Trouble, the metaphysics of women. In the beginning there was Smother, as I began to think of her quite early on.
Right from the getgo, who is it, anyway, who teaches us to worship our mother, regardless of how they operate?
“Women” is my answer, when somebody asks the question, “Which came first, the chicken or the egg?” This question is not about chickens, I finally realized, but about creative life force. I say, look for the answer in women.
I stand in the shadow of no man, when it comes to my respect for women. Especially the ones with really nice firm buns.
You know who you are.
And I know a lot about women, which is not to say I know anything of permanent value.
I don’t understand women. The woman I live with will tell you unbidden.
Women are not without their imperfections, much as they would have us believe their natures exalted. Not only are they allowed to change their minds, they want to change mine, too.
Never mine. They love you and try to change you at the same time. Never mind.
When I was at long last finally a young man, I was a big heavy shy self-conscious lumbering bumbling galoot who never had much, hardly any, success, which is to say none, no success at all, with the members of the opposite sex.
I got married the first time too young and it was as inevitable as your horn blowing at the wrong time at the drive-in. I got married so I could have a fifty-fifty shot of getting a date.
And getting laid.
Always that.
Then one day, still married, about five years later, baby-fat gone, I became suddenly really attractive to the ladies. All ages, all sizes, all persuasions.
Some were more persuasive than others.
And that’s pretty much held true to this date. Try to keep the galootness to a minimum.
In recent years, I went from Norma Louise, spiritual advisor to Mother Teresa, next to Lotta Trubble, a 5’10,” size-four exotic dancer and from her to Hiawatha Moscowitz, who is short and full-figured and a prophetic poet/naturopath.
Norma Louise and Hiawatha both claimed to be witches and Barker thought that maybe should be in the book of records. How many men have lived with two (2) actual witches? And left with his balls.
The dancer was crazy. Not that it was her fault.
Hiawatha is one of the best people you’ll ever want to meet. A lot like Norma Louise.
So, what’s the trouble?
At least the twentysomething Lotta Trubble was with me during the nude beach weather. Which makes sense, doesn’t it? Her figure made grown men weep. A body as beautiful as an uncut flower and I could never make sense of her.
At least you had a father. At least you had a dog. She talked about adding a “few cc’s” to her implanted breasts.
Women have always been a problem.
Snappy dresser, style leader. With sprinkling of freckles.
I began my search for the perfect woman with a little cupcake named Margaret Scott who was the great love of my life in the third grade. I have only good memories for Margaret who dumped me like yesterday’s Popsicle for Alvin Squirrel, the garbage man’s kid who lived up the street.
Early daycare. I’d bus to some other kid’s home on Seminary Hill and his mom, or their neighbor lady, would keep an eye on me. Smother always worked full-time and I was the kind of child you did not want to leave alone. So Smother seemed to imply. She blamed it on my “gifted” intelligence and cut me some slack until I was ten years old and bigger than she was. Even then, my reputation always seemed to surpass my actual accomplishments.
On the other hand, I have always imagined myself to be something of a trained killer.
I was full grown at twelve, the size you see me now, six three. Lighter of course, back then. Seems I’ve put a pound a year on for the last thirty years.
No, it’s true. I figured it out once, I’ve gained about an ounce, ounce and a half per month every month since I was thirteen. Of course, my weight has always been a problem.
Twelve. That was the year we moved from the farm to town. That was the year I lost my dog and the year I got my first non-A grade in something other than deportment. That was the year I broke my little brother’s arm and Tophand flushed my head down the toilet.
When I was twelve, life changed in a way I could never get a handle on. Not until this trip.
I am Barker Ajax and I am not crazy.
CHAPTER ONE. YOU KNOW WHO YOU ARE.
I am Barker Ajax and I feel like a brand new man.
“If enough rain falls on it, even a rock will change shape,” I remember telling one friend.
I’d been in and around Roseland for some twenty years. Gone bust and boom a couple of times. Loved and lost and loved and lost. I was in my early twenties when I first came to town so I feel like I grew up here.
Then one night I had this dream. I’m in a doctor’s office. Everything’s white except the doctor. She looks exactly like Bill Cosby. “You have a year to live,’ the Doc tells me. There’s a stunned moment of silence as I absorb the news.
Finally, I find the strength to speak. “Fiscal or calendar?”
Hell, it was simply time to turn the page.
Have you have heard anybody, yourself perhaps, say, “If I just had my life to do all over again…?” Right about there the voice trails off. Followed by a wistful sigh.
I came to Oregon to become who I was going to be. Which back then was a lawyer. I left Oregon to discover what I would do with the rest of my life. That’s really all that’s very important. The future.
I like to think I’ve paid my dues, I’ve learned, I’ve grown. I figured some stuff out. One thing I figure is, we need to get away more often.
Civilized man has become a trapped beast. He needs to break away. To get free. To soar to new heights. Loftier levels.
Reminds me of some grafitto I saw at this bar in Old Chinatown, Hung Far Low’s: “When you’re born, you cry out. When you’re born again, you just talk loud.” Place used to serve some righteous drinks.
Barker Ajax born-again?
Well, not in any organized religious sense.
What I mean is, I’m brand-new. Optimistic. Full of hopefulness. Childlike with wonder and awe at the majesty of my world. Bright-eyed and bushy-tailed.
I simply made a conscious decision; I just decided to start my life anew.
START FRESH.
TIME TO HIT THE FREE WAY.
I think we need to leave a place to truly understand it. I grew up in New York state, in rural Mt. Pisgah, a very small town in the lake country 50 miles north of the city, but I feel like a Roselander.
This is home. In Roseland, I became who I am today.
Better late than never.
Doubtlessly more true about the nation as a whole, I see Roseland as a dysfunctional family. The local media and the major power brokers want us to believe everything is okay. Just like parents.
What few problems we have, they tell us, are being addressed. Don’t worry. It’s morning in Roseland.
We’ve put on a happy face. The authority figures (mommy & daddy) are more concerned with how we look to outsiders than what the reality actually is. Perceptions and public relations are more important than people and solutions. Wouldn’t want to scare tourists or potential investors. Not with the truth.
I can’t seem to be a co-dependent. It’s not in me. I love Roseland too much to sit idly by as others take us down the path of skewed values and constipated hypocrisy. And nobody in this town wants to hear the bad news.
Which is okay ’cause nobody seems to have the guts to speak out. And if they did, the media would trivialize the information. And distort the message.
Most people aren’t listening.
This isn’t a city, it’s a swap meet. Buy and sell, buy and sell. THE ONLY AGENDA BEING ADEQUATELY REPRESENTED IN ROSELAND IS THAT OF THE RICH WHITE BUSINESS COMMUNITY.
They write the words to the songs in this town.
The rest of us are supposed to hum along. The same tune.
There’s a certain you-are-what-you-own provincialism here that I find, umm, simplistic. Maybe if I had more stuff myself, I’d be more forgiving. Half the people are fat and the other half are starving, and no progress is made toward equilibrium.
Maybe I am merely jealous.
Nah. You don’t have to be a proctologist to recognize an asshole when you see one.
One thing about the media in this town, it’s purely advertiser-driven. Bill Moyers once said, “Of all the myths of journalism, objectivity is the greatest.” I think that’s more true about Roseland than in other cities. I could be wrong, but…. That’s one reason I left town, so I could how the media operates in other places.
Somebody else called Roseland a swap meet. And I remember hearing somebody say the Mayor had in mind more of an amusement park. A theme park. Bud’s World.
I’m thinking Roseland is more like a mall. Part swap meet, part theme park. Managed by the Roseland Development Commission. The Power Company, I call it. A spider-web of connections between a bushy-faced mayor, a lady police chief, downtown landowners, drug trafficking, increment financing, and the publisher of the town’s only daily paper.
The final straw, I guess, was the re-opening of the Lloyd Center. Music by the Oregon Symphony. Emceed by our ex-Governor. When I saw the former Cabinet member hosting mall openings, like he’s Ramblin’ Rod at Oaks Amusement Park, I knew it was time to get off the roller-coaster.
What would breaking loose mean? No job. No boss. No commute. No ties. No alarm clocks. No house. No mortgage. No rent. No property tax. No yard work. No United Way campaign. No more franked updates from my congressman.
Thoreau. “Most men, even in this comparatively free country, through mere ignorance and mistake, are so occupied with the factitious cares and superfluously coarse labors of life that its finer fruits cannot be plucked from them.”
CHAPTER TWO: WHY BREAK LOOSE?
Leaving Town.
I was cleaning off my desktop, a newspaper clipping caught my eye.
Something Pudge Hindenberg said after the loudmouth conservative syndicated talk-show host signed on the air at his 350th radio station. “Nobody wants to hear from the liberals.”
He’s right. Way right. He has a message Americans want to hear. This is the land of the beautiful and home of the brave. The entire country is one big Lake Wobegon where things would be a lot better if we didn’t have to pay taxes to fight so much crime. Don’t worry, be happy. Just do it. Go Blazers. God bless George Bush. Read his lips. And now a word from our sponsors, your state lottery commission.
Nobody wants to hear the cold truth. There’s no market for it. The truth hurts too much. Facts are funny things. Another pile of clippings seemed no more comforting. I rifled from one miscarriage to another, becoming more depressed on the one hand, more confident it was time for change on the other.
Spending on all government – state, local & federal – is nearly 40% of the gross national product (GNP). About $1,900,000,000,000. Bureaucrats make up over 15% of our total work force.
A NASA technician stumbled on his lab coat and bumped into a space rocket. Actually, it was the nozzle of a space rocket. He cracked the nozzle. The government replaced the entire first stage of the rocket. Cost to the taxpayer? About $6 million.
Of those incumbent Congressmen who sought another term, 98% were re-elected. Only twelve percent of American adults understand astrology is not a science.
In 1988, industry generated 20,146 metric tons of hazardous waste. Eleven percent of the GNP went to pay medical bills.
AIDS has killed nearly 47,000 Americans. Nearly 46,000 are killed each year in motor vehicle accidents. There are 400 million cars in the world. One hundred million Americans live in cities with unsafe levels of ozone and carbon monoxide.
New York City police seized 16,370 guns in a recent year. A three-year-old boy was used as a shield in a gun battle between rival drug gangs. He was seriously wounded.
Within a ten or fifteen minute ride from the White House one recent Valentine’s Day, thirteen people were killed or wounded with firearms.
In the history of marijuana smoking, there have been no – zero – deaths reported. Eight hundred to one thousand deaths can be attributed to aspirin. Almost four hundred thousand Americans die annually because of smoking. Ten times the number who die from illegal drugs.
U.S. companies produced 600 BILLION cigarettes in 1988.
Oregonians spend about fifty cents per person in state funding for the arts.
Texans drink more beer than residents in any other state, 27.5 gallons per person per year. The equivalent of 60 billion cans of beer were sold in 1986. The average annual alcoholic consumption – pure alcohol – for every American, age 14 and older, is about 50 gallons of beer. Or 5 gallons of whiskey. More mimosas than you can count.
Twelve percent of convicted rapists are not sentenced to prison. Average cost of a four-year college education is over $46,000. One in four college students has been a victim of crime. More than 13,000 were assaulted.
At Texas A&M, 93% of the male students in a Journal Of Sexual Research report said they’d been coerced into sex. Usually because an aggressive woman took off her clothes. (These are guys in crewcuts, wearing uniforms.) Many of the men said they were too drunk to stop the woman. Others said they didn’t want to hurt the woman’s feelings.
In 1969, 25% of movies were rated R. Today about 65%.
In a recent year, 6128 dogs were brought to the Oregon Humane Society in Roseland. 1,656 found new homes. 4,472 went to The Big Kennel In The Sky. As many as 18 million pets are destroyed in the U.S.A. each year. There are 56,000,000 cats and 54,000,000 dogs in the U.S. Every hour, more than 2,000 dogs and 3500 cats are born.
Americans spent $1.8 billion on furs in a recent year.
According to a study from Johns Hopkins University, more young children die from murder than from any other type of injury-caused death. Between 1980-1985, 1,250 children under 1 year of age were murdered. Suicides more than doubled during period for kids ages 10 to 14.
As many as 7 million “latch-key children” under age 14 fend for themselves every day after school. Today perhaps as many as 80% of mothers have to work outside the home. Every month, 500,000 of the 13 million American children living in poverty go hungry.
During the first ten months of 1988, 171 drug-addicted babies were born in Roseland, compared to 113 the entire year before. Also in 1988, 2,477 women sought shelter from abusive men.
One out of twelve ADULT Oregonians can’t read this sentence. As many as 27 million adults, nearly a quarter of all workers, lack the basic reading, writing and math skills. Only one American in twenty buys a book each year.
White family income is now eighty percent higher that of black families.
In 1914, average Americans actually welcomed the first income tax. The average worker only made eight hundred dollars. Since you didn’t have to pay unless you made $3000 ($4000 if you were married), the common man on the street didn’t have to pay. Those who did pay forked over a flat one percent.
The Revenue Act of 1916 lowered the minimum taxable income to $1000. By 1919, the maximum tax rate has climbed to 77%.
Of course, there was no radio to speak of back then. So there weren’t any talk show hosts to watch out for the generations who came before us. Nobody like Pudge Hindenburg.
Nobody wants to hear the bad news. Nobody wants to listen to liberals. Where is the truth? Is it on the air or is it buried somewhere in the statistics?
Six hundred billion dollars disappeared – so far – in the S&L scandal. Buried somewhere. “A lot of money got put into people’s pockets and they’ve rat-holed it somewhere,” explained H. Joe Selby, a former chief regulator for the Federal Home Loan Bank of Dallas. “Some of it is in artwork, fancy homes, fancy airplanes and Rolls-Royces. Some of it went to Rolex watches, lizard shoes, hunting parties and yachts.”
The richest one percent of Americans saw their share of wealth double in the Whoring Eighties. In a single decade, the truly wealthy accumulated as much fortune as they had in the hundred years previous.
Listen to the way the wind blows. It tolls for us.
Of the 336 television ministries on the air in 1988, 34 were being audited by the IRS.
And what in the name of Christ does any of this mean to me right now? Nothing.
CHAPTER THREE. YOUR TURN TO GET ON TOP!
That was so good, baby.
Wish I was younger and richer and better-looking.
I wish you were, too, Honey.
Just have to make do. With each other.
Your turn to get on top.
Oh, yeah, sweetie, right there.
Yes, ma’m.
Oh, yeah.